A Story of Grandmother and Christmas
I was twelve years old, in the early 1950s, when my family and I moved into a large old frame house in a French-Canadian quarter of Ottawa, with my grandparents, a spinster aunt, and a bachelor uncle. The quarter we lived in was a square mile of well-maintained houses, old and new, on beautifully clean tree-lined streets. The lawns were green and all sorts of bushes and plants landscaped the properties.
Some properties were quite large and it wasn't unusual to find barn-like sheds that housed hens and chicks in the backyards. There were also many vacant lots where children would play safely in groups without our parents worrying about us. In the post-war boom years though, the vacant lots began to disappear as houses, duplexes, and triplexes were built to house the exploding population.
Life was good once more. I was living with all of the people I had loved since my birth. It had been a long time since we all lived under one roof. I was born in my grandparents' house during the WWII. Then, when I reached age one year, my parents moved us into our own place. Now, my Grandparents had become old and ill and needed care and companionship around the clock. So without a second thought, my parents reciprocated their love and when they needed us we moved in with them.
In those days, families were knit very tightly by the responsibility for one another and children saw to their parents' welfare until their deaths. Placing mamma or papa in a home because he was senile and she was handicapped by illness was not something that was done then. The post-war government had not begun to look into these social needs and families usually paid the price for good help. And in a large family, it was understood that each sister or brother took turns living with the Grans and the responsibility was shared evenly for many years.
Another familiar characteristic of those days was that spinsters and bachelors remained with their families until their parents died, or until they married late and left the family home Aunt and uncle who held steady jobs, as did my father were away all day and I, of course, attended school. Mother stayed home and took care of the house as well as being on hand to see to the grandparents' needs. In the evenings Uncle usually helped with some outside chores, after which he would be free to return to a few books or to pursue his post soldiering bachelorhood with his friends, while Aunt took over the care of Grandmère for the evening, and the occasional night shift. Mother appreciated having her family around. She was a home person who lived and loved for all of us, and at age 12, I basked in all that attention and affection from so many loved ones surrounding me.
Dad sometimes travelled for his employer and when he did, well, Mother and I still had someone at home to help cope, someone to chop up the wood for the huge wood-burning stove. And if there were strange noises at night, and in such an old house, there were many, Uncle was there to provide security and comfort. I loved my time in that old house. To me, then, it seemed larger than it actually was I suppose, as things always appear bigger and better to a child.
The homes back then, although certainly not estate size, were built with big families in mind, and this one was not different. The rooms were big and square. The kitchen where all the activities took place, and where all the delicious smells were created, was vast compared to today's standards. On one side taking up almost a whole wall stood a huge wood-burning stove, with two ovens, one hot water tank and the warming ovens and shelf on top. Several nooks and crannies gave the room more warmth, while a long table and with a long bench underneath the window and several chairs around it occupied the middle of the room, and served as my homework desk after school. (Sometimes mother felt more benevolent and permitted me to dump all of my school supplies on her best dining room table, but mostly I did homework in the kitchen where mother was on hand to answer questions I would toss at her intermittently.)
To get into the kitchen, you had to enter through a glass panelled summer kitchen, where one had to remove boots and coats before entering the "real" house. On rainy weekends, the men would sit there and chew the fat and drink beer, and generally do some male bonding of that era. There was a small rangette type of stove at one end of the sunroom, which came in handy to do extra cooking and baking, especially during the Christmas holidays. Mother always cooked the smelly fish that Uncle would bring back from his weekends with the "old" boys, on that little stove, so the smell would not permeate the house and the furniture. Smart woman!
The only thorn in my young rose filled life then was perhaps Grandpère who suffered from occasional bouts of senility. He would leave the house for hours at a time and sometimes forget his way back. On those days everyone in the house fretted and being a sensitive child, I quickly picked up the signals and fretted along with the rest of the household. At times I even joined in the hunt to "find Grandpère". Once or twice I returned from these expeditions quite embarrassed, having found him somewhere down the street, shaking his walking cane angrily at teasing children. Well, at least he had found his way home and we were all relieved. In between those spells, Grandpère was still keen enough to do his own banking, go to his barbershop and find his groups of cronies at different watering holes in our quarter.
The best rose of all, the most precious gem in my rose covered garden was Grandmère. That tiny, delicate, gentle creature who could still walk a little though not yet weak enough to take to her bed. She carried about her an aura of goodness that surrounded me with the most special feelings of love. She was a quiet woman, Grandmère. A God-fearing person who accepted the limitations imposed upon her by a degenerative disease, she retained a sense of humour that could erupt during the most critical of situations. It saved the day and put smiles back on everyone's faces. Oh how I loved her! How I miss her still. And she loved me too.
Their favourite form of entertainment was watching me dance. I had never taken dancing lessons, but a friend had taught me some basic tap steps and Grandmère loved to see me dance to music from the radio. I pretended to be embarrassed by her attentions - putting on airs of not wanting to show off - but I was proud and I loved to give encores. She especially loved my duets with a crank-up Charlie Chaplin tap dancing doll. I can see her still, with her laughing face, applauding this twelve year old ham just as one would a three year old.
My most favourite times with her were late afternoons, after school when we would cuddle on the sofa and I would speak to her of my day at school, my fears, and she would listen with her quiet manner and then would offer me her wisdom in a gentle way. She also shared some of her own fears with me. Once after having discussed her eventual death, she told me that my cousins and I should not weep at her funeral, for she was eager to cross over to a more loving gentle world.
She said she would not let us grieve for her, and that having had a very full life with a husband and ten children, she was ready to go when God called her back. I accepted her promise of consolation but could not imagine my life without her presence. (Several years later, her promise came to pass, and the grieving was easier than we imagined because we knew she was now free of an ailing body.)
But my happy times with Grandmère were quickly aborted. It was the week before Christmas when my "old love" took to her bed. "She's quite ill", Mother told me, and "There must be absolute quiet". The atmosphere in the house quickly changed to one of a hospital, with adults swishing silently back and forth to the sick room, meals being taken in and brought back out un-eaten. Linens were washed more often, and the ironing board, always at hand in the large kitchen, was ready to take out the creases from the bedclothes that could cause Grandmère discomfort as she lay in bed. The forgotten conversation of months ago entered my mind and I began to feel afraid then. Grandmère could die. She was old. I had never seen anyone die before. Oh, I hoped I would not be in the room if it happened.
On that Eve of Christmas, the living room was all a glitter with the colours of Christmas. All the while conscious of the signs of a sick person dwelling upstairs, the preparations for the feast of the following day had all been done by Mother and Aunt; Dad had put up the tree and I helped to decorate it. The presents had all been wrapped and tied with silk and satin ribbons of all colours. All of these preparations had been going on despite the sad mood of the family because, my parents wanted things to go on as usual. And they did all they could to preserve some semblance of happiness for my sake, because I was their child and also because there was another child on the way. This Christmas Eve was to be a celebration for the three of us - the approaching arrival of a sibling.
As I sat in the living room, dressed in my new Christmas outfit, waiting for Mother and Dad to go to Midnight Mass, I looked around at the beauty of the jewelled tree and the presents that lay underneath, and felt the old familiar eagerness to get to the best part of Christmas, which was the "opening of the presents" after mass and before the "réveillon", which was the feast that usually follows midnight mass and would last until the wee hours of the morning.
I was shattered out of my rêverie, as I heard Mother rushing out of Grandmère's bedroom and talking in anxious whispers to my Dad. Dad rushed downstairs to telephone the doctor, and the priest was also sent for. Grandmère's condition was becoming worse and plans of Midnight Mass, choirs and little baby Jesus, quickly vanished from my mind to be replaced with greater anxiety and fear.
Mother greeted the doctor and the priest who arrived together and the three of them climbed the stairs to the sick room. They stayed in the bedroom a long time. As I sat in the living room staring at the beautifully decorated tree, I counted the gifts under it to pass the time and to try to forget my "old love" who lay upstairs dying. Selfish thoughts of a happy Christmas denied, mixed with fear of losing such a loved one reeled crazily through my young mind. The soft murmur of the prayers of the last rites drifted down to me and my fear increased. Why wasn't I asked to participate? What mysterious deeds were being done to my "old love"?
After long moments of torment, Mother came down accompanied by the doctor and the priest. Both had done all they could do. The rest was in God's hands. I prayed then. Silently. I prayed for Him not to take Grandmère.
The night passed into morning and with the ringing of church bells and a fresh blanket of snow, new hopes arose in our hearts. Grandmère was out of danger. She was never quite the same after that though, for later she was bedridden for many years. But somewhere in this vast universe, Someone heard a child's silent anguish and turned her prayers into reality. Grandmère was alive! Still loving! Christmas with all my loved ones was not denied me and my fears were erased. It was to me the beginning of a new era - my first memory of a prayer answered.
This story was donated for posting by Denise Morin.
Denise's Bio: I am a poet and writer of children's stories, having written three major ones with one series included, but not finished (for a series can go on and on). I am rather universal in my spiritual beliefs. I study and teach meditation, visualization and philosophies from different religious / belief arenas. I believe that soul growth occurs with knowledge and acceptance of others in this universe.
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